“Oh, come on, Elle. It was a bitter remark, hearkening back to the day you made that silly IOU promise. I didn’t mean that, not any more than you meant your comment.”
My anger flared brighter. I tugged at my wrist, continuing, “Or about the way you have toyed with me ever since I returned to the valley? I might have been partial to your looks, an easy mistake to overlook, but you threw it in my face, again and again. I know you, George, and you have never cared a stitch for me. It was always Clara, and I won’t stand for being second choice, a stand-in for the girl you always pined for.” I shook with emotion. My anger was quickly melting into tears.
George let go of my wrist with a snap. “Clara? Oh, don’t tell me we’re still talking about her. You still have it in your head that she’s the one I was pining for?”
I stepped back. “I won’t allow you to lie to me, to tell me that it was me you cared about, not when all you did was tease me and blush at the mere mention of Clara. I am not blind, and I am certainly not stupid.”
George stepped forward, a threatening gleam in his eye. “You’d have to be some kind of silly to mistake my affections. You know what you need, Elizabeth Pratt?” He did not wait for me to answer. “You need a good throttling. But because that would be highly improper, I’ll settle for a dunk in the creek.”
I shifted backward. “You would not dream of it.”
“Oh? You don’t think so?” he asked.
I regretted challenging him.
He lunged forward and flung me over his shoulder as if I were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
“George!” I protested. I screamed and kicked. I was wearing one of my best dresses, the one Nora had given me before that last dinner with William—the one with a pale-green sash. “Don’t you dare!” I screamed in a last attempt.
But it was too late. George carried me across the pasture, disregarding my objections, and he threw me into the creek.
The water soaked me to my waist. I gasped, shocked at the iciness of the water.
“Don’t you dare try to tell me what I mean and who I prefer,” George said, breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed, and for once, I saw the boy I had grown up with once more—determined, yet unsure of himself. “You want to know the truth of it?”
My shoulders slumped. I could not look at him, not when he looked so broken.
“I blushed every time your sister came around because she always caught me with you.”
I wanted to cry. It was that horrible vulnerable feeling again, like I was once more being dragged against the mud in my underclothes—or like the bare tree in the front garden of Uncle Johnny’s school. I was completely exposed, unable to disguise my emotion. I swallowed and moved to stand.
George pushed me back into the water. “There’s no one on this earth who can make me angrier than you.”
The tears came in full force. I choked on a sob.
His expression softened at the sight of me, and his voice grew throaty. “It’s only because I care so much for you.”
I caught my breath. I wanted to believe him.
He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not your opponent. I’m sick of playing this game of back and forth, stubbornness and pride.” His voice ached with emotion, his green eyes glistening with promise. “I meant every last bit of that kiss, Elle. I’ve replayed that moment over and over in my mind, wishing I could stop you from walking away. I love you; I always have. I thought I’d made it obvious over the years, but in case I haven’t, let me repeat myself. There’s no one else I want but you. There was never anyone else but you.”
I forgot about the cold creek and how my legs had grown numb. George Hughes loved me?
He wiped his nose and walked to the edge of the creek, without giving me a moment to respond. He left, marching across the field and back to the wagon of jams.
I watched helplessly at the way he pressed forward with strength and resolve. He was magnificent, and I wished him back. I almost cried out his name, begged him to stop, but I was like Daddy; words escaped me. George had laid it all on the line, shared his most intimate feelings, and I had said nothing. I convulsed in sobs. I felt like the dress I wore—pretentious and ruined, weighed down beyond what I was made for.
Dearest Elle,
William came to see me today. He wondered if I had word from you. You really ought to write him, for there are other ladies who would gladly court him.
The baby’s time draws near, and with it my anxiety rises. Nora promises me that I have the strength. I am not so sure, however. Thomas thinks it a boy, but I am more inclined to think it is a girl. I will write as soon as there is any news to share.
Do take care. I sense that Mama withheld the truth of Daddy’s condition and your reason for returning home on such short notice. Please tell me the truth, for I cannot bear to think of Daddy suffering. Please tell me he improves.
Love,
Clara
Chapter Twenty-Nine
ELIZABETH, DO SEND OUR LOVE TO your mother.”
“We are praying for your father’s recovery.”
“So happy to have you home.”
Families filed in the room in clumps. First it was the Kearnses, then the Lowrys and Fosters. Soon there were so many faces—the Wilsons and the Butlers, the Driggses and the Fillmores—all whom I knew, that lined my booth. The room was filled to capacity, a rare sight, even for all the years I had attended the festival. It seemed everyone knew of Daddy’s slow recuperation and my efforts in the kitchen.
Daddy made it clear he did not wish to attend. It would have been humiliating for him to sit in front of so many people, bound to his chair and unable to answer or greet them. I had decorated the booth, per Mama’s instructions, with garlands of dried flowers and my finest embroidered tablecloth.
“Any strawberry left? I’ll take whatever you have,” Beth Foster said.
I handed her my last two jars in exchange for her coins. “Thank you.”
I had forgotten how quickly word spread across the valley. I had forgotten how kind and generous these people were. They were a force to be reckoned with, for within the first hour, my jams were sold, and my purse rang full of jingling coins. Growing up in the valley, the Fall Harvest Festival was the social event of the year. As a child, it seemed magical. But after returning from Virginia and the lavish events that Nora and Uncle Johnny had taken me to, the grandeur of Town Hall had faded. To have sold my jams already—it was not a feat left to chance. These people had emptied their purses most willingly.
Gratitude overcame me, and I snuck outside, just when the sun was setting, to compose myself. I had done my best to put on a happy face and greet each customer as a friend. It was humbling to be at the mercy of charity—no matter if I had labored for it or not.
Uncle Johnny’s sentiments seemed to float across the divide, settling in my heart. He had spoken of that white oak’s bare branches with admiration. “It must be nice for the tree to lose its leaves every now and again,” he had said. “It must feel so much lighter.” I felt the weight of my purse. It was more than I had hoped to sell. Like the bare branches of the tree, my family’s troubles had been set before the valley’s population for all to see. It was surprising how right Uncle Johnny was, how much lighter I felt. There was no pretending here, no practiced smiles. Only kindness.
I grasped at my side, choking back a sob. I had known it was coming since the moment I had seen the line in front of my booth. I let the tears roll, and I savored the warm sensation flooding my heart. It was a mixture of emotions—the familiarity and comfort of the faces, my humility and gratitude for their generosity and concern, a desire to be that type of friend in the future, and an overwhelming sense of love.
A feeling struck me, at first as a fleeting thought, but then as a constant buzzing in my ears. Was this the feeling of being home—comfort, humility, gratitude, and love? I had searched for so long to find my place. It was here; it had always been here. How had I not recognized it before? All
the listlessness at school, all the struggling to fit in now seemed silly. I was not meant to marry William and live a life of comfort.
I was built for something more, built for the struggling and the messiness of life. I had confused pleasing Daddy for pleasing myself. I was made to climb trees and tease. I was made for the valley.
There was nowhere I belonged more than beside George. He challenged me. I had always known that, though I had mistaken it for a game of pride. I saw more clearly now; it was a challenge within, a challenge to rise to the occasion, to be something more than I was.
Even before Virginia, when I had been sweet on Toby Lowry, it had all been a cover-up of something deeper, something I had not wished to confront. I had always loved George Hughes, even before his lanky arms had filled with muscle and his handsome features had developed.
I buried my face in my handkerchief, my sobs transformed into spastic giggles. I wiped what I hoped would be the last of my tears and returned to the festival.
But my wave of newfound confidence came to a sudden halt when I stepped through the door. Beth Foster hung on George’s arm. Her bright smile radiated from where she stood.
My heart sank. She was beautiful in a feminine and adoring way that I was not. From what Nora and Uncle Johnny had told me often, I was different. They used words like striking, bold, and fiery to describe me. I was anything but sweet and gentle.
But then again, George loved me. He cared for me, unless my behavior had been enough to push him away. I swallowed. I would not compete with Beth, at least not in the traditional sense.
“Step right up,” Mr. Lowry’s familiar voice boomed. He was standing at the podium, his arms outstretched.
I had a faint sense of déjà vu from years earlier, as if I were given another chance to prove to myself that I need not succumb to someone else’s expectations, even if that someone was my father. I would race, and I would try to win.
“I’m pleased to announce that the Fall Harvest Festival’s games have officially begun. We’ll start with the log toss out back, the children’s relays inside. For any who would like to try their hand at tug-of-war or the three-legged race, find your teams now,” Mr. Lowry said.
The only partner who seemed willing to race with me was a thirteen-year-old boy named Lyle. He came up to my chin, and he had not yet grown into his legs or face. Though he was shorter than me, our legs were nearly the same size, and keeping in time would not be difficult.
Lyle had a raggedy look to him, the type who made me itch to ruffle his messy hair. It reminded me of George as a child; he was perfect.
“Are you fast?” I asked.
He grinned, and a set of crooked teeth shined back at me. “Faster than most. My daddy has me chase the cows.”
My eyes lit, and I shook his hand. “That is good enough for me.”
Before the shot of the gun, I had a feeling in my gut we would win. And when the shot sounded, the smoke lingering in the air, we were off—out and in, and out and in. We passed Toby and George, the schoolchildren, and even the undefeated champions—Mr. and Mrs. Kearns. We flew across the finish line in perfect sync.
We caught our breath and celebrated our spoils—a box of luxury chocolates courtesy of Mr. Kearns and his store.
Lyle grinned that toothy grin at me and said, “Miss Elizabeth, will you be my partner next year?”
A giggle bubbled up my throat, and my voice was raspy. “You may rely on it.”
I awoke with a start to the sound of tapping at the window. I wanted to shoot that silly bird, but only after I caught my breath. It had a tendency of tapping at night, unlike the rest of its species.
The tapping against the window came again, but this time I recognized a human quality to its sound, a rhythmic pattern too strange for any bird. I flinched, pulling the covers over my chin. I could not think of anyone who would tap on my window in the pitch dark—not even George, for all the trouble he caused me.
A drifter. My eyes clamped shut, and I edged to the side of my bed. It was possible. Each summer, a few would wander into the valley. It was past the peak of travelers, but perhaps this one had come later, lost his way … and tapped on my window?
I cringed. Not likely. Why would someone, especially so dangerous, make the effort to tap on my window? If he wanted to kill me, which is what I imagined of all the drifters I had seen, he would have barged through the front door or broken through the glass.
I swallowed and slipped out from under the covers, wearing only my nightgown. It was someone I knew. It had to be. I pressed my hands against the glass, peeking outside. A darkened figure clung to the edge of the dormer.
“Elle,” he said.
My heart stopped. I had not heard Paul’s voice in years, and yet I knew him in an instant. I threw open the latch and opened the window, pulling his arm through the small opening.
“Paul,” I said, hearing the shock in my own voice.
He knocked a book from my dressing table as he fell headfirst, and I had to reach out to keep the vase from falling beside it. For once, I was grateful Mama was a heavy sleeper.
Paul regained his bearings and straightened. The night was dark, with little more than the stars to light the room. “I hoped you would let me in. I was prepared to sleep in the barn, but after the journey I’ve had …” His voice trailed off, and he threw his arms around me. “Oh, Elle. I’ve missed you.”
I buried my head into his shoulder. “Is it really you?” I asked.
He laughed and reached for the light.
The man in front of me was thin, so thin that his frame looked feeble and faint. His clothes hung over his body like an empty sack. I looked to his face—his bearded and mucked-up face. Bruises lay beneath each eye, and a scabbed-over gash stretched across his forehead.
“Do I look that bad?” he asked, a familiar smile spreading across his face.
I gasped, half laughing. I had not realized I had been holding my breath. I stepped forward, embracing him once more. “You have to tell me everything.”
We sat on my bed, the customary creak of the springs breaking the tension that had settled between us.
Paul placed his hand on mine. “You’d never believe what I’ve been through.” He laughed, shaking his head, and fell backward on the mattress. “I’ve seen more in the last two years of my life than the rest put together.”
I wanted to ask him everything but tried my hand at patience, thanking God above that my brother had returned. “Trust me, by the looks of you, I am ready to believe just about anything you tell me. Are you all right?” I asked.
Paul laughed again, this time from his belly. “Yes, I’m quite all right. I’ve had my run-ins, but I’m all right.”
My brows knit together. I leaned toward him. “You are not in trouble with the law, are you?”
Paul sat up. “ ’Course not. In fact, believe it or not, I kind of work for the law, as a bounty hunter.”
“A bounty hunter?” I asked. “I thought you were working at a mine?”
My brother smiled. “Oh, Elle, that ended only a few months after it began. That Utah boy—you remember him from my letters? Turns out he was really on the run from some crooks. One thing led to another. Somehow I ended up being asked to find the ringleader.” He exhaled. “It paid better than the mine by a long shot.”
The thought of my brother Paul chasing criminals across Colorado made my heart sink. “Is that why you haven’t written in so long?”
Paul rubbed one hand along his beard. “You could say that. I was on an especially difficult catch, nearly died in them Coloradoan mountains from hunger.” He pushed one hand in his pocket. “I almost forgot.”
He handed me a candy stick.
Root beer, my favorite. My eyes traced his thin frame once more. My brother, who had nearly starved, had carried a candy stick across the country for me. I threw my arms around him, nearly choking him about the neck. I finally had my brother back, and I determined—like with Clara—never to lose him again.
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Chapter Thirty
I KNELT IN FRONT OF MY BROTHER, nudging him.
We had talked for hours the previous night, until our eyelids had drooped and our voices trailed off. Paul had been walking from the train station for three days straight. He had been robbed on the train—a story I wish I could have recited to Mr. Withers’s history class. It was a real cowboy one, and more interesting than the duel I had imagined for my class. After he was safe from danger, Paul slept under the shade of trees, ate raw potatoes in the fields, and drank from a spring or two along the way.
Paul knocked my arm away, rolling to his other side.
I smiled. It was just like my brother to do that. I pushed him again, this time calling his name. “Paul.”
His eyes opened. “What on earth are you … ?”
I wore Mama’s apron and had spread out a blanket beneath a stool. “I am giving you a haircut. Mama will not recognize you like that, and Daddy will not want anything to do with you.”
Paul smiled, yawning as he did so. “So that’s it. I’m to be ordered around by my younger sister.”
“Yes,” I said. “And quick. It will not be long before Mama is awake.”
Paul begrudgingly sat on the stool and folded his arms. “Let’s get this over with.”
It took me thirty minutes to manage his ragged hair and crusted beard. The combing was difficult enough, but cutting it—it had grown thick and coarse, and I was only used to Daddy’s thinning hair. The mats were unruly. At last, I convinced myself Paul was presentable and turned him toward my mirror.
“Presenting the terrible, heinous bounty hunter,” I said, smirking. “Now, I am set to clean this mess, but you really must get a good wash before you see Mama. Take these clothes and hurry.”
Paul brushed his hand against his cheek, examining the soft, white skin his beard had covered. He shrugged. “If you say so, boss.”
The butter sizzled in the skillet as I cracked the first egg.
Mama wandered through the kitchen archway, stopping to open the window. “My, my, making breakfast today? I thought you preferred a bowl of porridge with a cup of milk.” She put an arm around me, kissing my cheek.
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 18